


The Lonely

by LittleSpacePrince



Series: Tale Teller's Daily Writing Challenge [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 10:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13545117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpacePrince/pseuds/LittleSpacePrince
Summary: Prompt:"Shit happens. But when your character gets stuck in a room, alone, with the person they hate the most, that shit is going to hit the fan."In which Bruce Banner is alone





	The Lonely

Imagination was a funny thing. Strange, what the imagination could do under extreme stress. Strange, how thresholds could be met and suddenly nothing mattered anymore. Strange, how the black could manifest around him when there was nothing left of him. Strange, how the pain could be so overwhelming that there came a peace in it. There was a lull, a numb, and he stopped fighting against it. Instead, he surrendered, and fell to his knees, alone. 

How long would it be until he saw the light of day again? How long until he was set free of this cage, until he could control his own body again? Years? Decades? _Ever?_ These moments of consciousness were few and far between, and hardly ever pretty. Sometimes there were memories, hallucinations to keep him company, driven mad with the quiet. But most of the time, it was just silence. Silence, and wondering. 

It didn't used to be this way. Back when it was hours instead of years, when he had control of the beast that lurked inside of him, it had been so loud. Like screaming static, violent and pulsing in his ears, burning like acid in his brain. There were flashes, like watching through the eyes of someone else, unable to stop them or change them. But now, it was just silent complacency, an inability to break free from the chains that bound him here.

But now it was just quiet. Quiet to the point of madness. Isolation to the point of insanity. 

It was the moments of waking that were the hardest. Moments when he assumed the Hulk was otherwise occupied, distracted enough for Bruce to make his way into some semblance of consciousness. Times such as these, when his heart rate rose and he was locked away in some dark room of what had once been his own mind, damned to rot there. Times where once he would scream and cry out for release, beg for his freedom, beg for his life, but now he had resigned himself to this cold fate.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last seen the light of day. Couldn’t remember how long it had been since Sakaar, or Asgard, or the mess that he had found himself tangled in. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d given himself over to the Hulk in hopes that he would find his way back to the surface. But it felt like years had passed, and there was no sign of freedom any time soon.

He cursed the day that he had climbed into that chair, exposing himself to the radiation like a fool. Sloppy mistakes that should never have been made, all made in the name of science and ambition. But it was arrogance that killed him. It was arrogance that made him _so damn certain._ It was arrogance that had pulled him into that chair before more research had been done, before more tests had been run, before more subjects had been tested before trying it on a human being. It was his arrogance that had created this monster.

Though, was it truly a monster, separate from himself? Was it really a mindless beast, or merely some extension of what he was and what he had been? 

He pushed his fingernails into his flesh in an attempt to feel something, anything, but there was nothing. No blood drawn, no pain tingling in his nerves. Nothing but the cold. 

There was a loathing. A loathing for the beast that he had created, a loathing for the thing that had locked him here, a loathing for these cruel predicaments. There was a loathing for the isolation, a loathing for silence more deafening than noise. There was a loathing for the man that had created this, the man who had sealed his fate. 

Funny, almost. Alone in a room with his worst enemy, and he was exactly that. Alone.


End file.
